by Arthur Davis
“I love you,” Robert Lawrence Massey said, then he began in earnest. “I do. I really love you.”
He sat back staring into the large mirror set against his computer, the words, and his emotional presentation echoing into a comfortable resolve.
A faded blue terry cloth robe slumped over his shoulders. Cathy Toller had given him the robe last year. She owned a string of health food stores in northern New Jersey, was twice his age, and almost as limber.
The younger ones were the most fragile and easily deceived. The older ones—the ones who had been through one or two divorces—just enjoyed his company. In return for his solicitousness and affection, they delighted in buying him clothes and trinkets, as would their ex-husbands with much younger women.
He switched off his computer, brushed back a thick lock of wavy brown hair, the kind women sold body parts to possess, dressed and walked out of his rent-controlled apartment, a decent enough one-bedroom affair in a luxury building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan secured for him by a real estate broker with whom he had once spent a vigorous weekend.
And yet he considered his greatest achievement, Arlene Rennert confessed last month, was that he was an artful and caring lover. That confession came the very day Nixon resigned rather than face impeachment. A week and a day later he met Lucy Hollings, daughter of Hollis Hollings, owner of the second-largest metal stamping company in the northeast; a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend kind of thing.
At twenty-six, Massey figured he had many more years of living off the affection of adoring women, many of whom possessed substantial sums of money, some earned by their forefathers, while others obtained their wealth through ex-husbands or, as was the case all too recently, they were the beneficiary of their own tireless efforts.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to get yourself a full-time job,” Andy Castleman said over the phone some months earlier after being brought up to date on Massey’s latest conquest.
“Do you know how few people order Cobb salads anymore?” he answered. “I read about it. Practically no one orders Cobb salad anymore. The world has lost touch with the conventions that once made it great.”
Robert opened the door to The Happy Helping, a new health food restaurant in the neighborhood, and was given a corner table overlooking Madison Avenue and 68th Street by the young, oddly ebullient, new hostess.
“Jennifer, if only all women were as warm and friendly, this would be a more embracing world.” The girl, beaming with delight, stood at his side, with the menus clutched to her bosom. “And, when I return, I will look for you to brighten it again.”
Massey toyed with the menu, thought about what was on his agenda today, and noticed there were a dozen unanswered calls on his cell.
“You’re Robert Massey, aren’t you?”
Robert got to his feet. “You have the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“Rebecca Highland,” she said. “You’re a friend of my cousin, Ashley. Two years ago? We met at a party in South Beach?”
Robert wasn’t sure of the cousin in question though, coincidentally enough, he had spent a long week in South Beach several years ago. “I remember Ashley, but you don’t look familiar. And there is no way I would forget a woman like you.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“Not at all. I’m delighted to see you again.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you too, Robert.”
“Please, join me?”
“Are you alone?”
“Until my friend comes, I am,” he said, reaching for her elbow and directing her to an empty chair. “Please, I promise not to behave in whatever ghastly way Ashley said I treated her.”
“Oh, no please! She only wished you two had stayed together,” she said.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” she said, almost sheepishly, “I just came in to use the bathroom.”
“So you’re the type of woman who insinuates herself on unsuspecting restaurant managers, taking advantage of the labors of others simply to satisfy your own selfish bodily desires?”
She winked deliciously. “I had to pee.”
“A noble cause. And I commend you for your resourcefulness”
The waitress came over. Massey ordered drinks for both, wondering where Helene, a woman he had met at a Barnes & Noble book reading, was.
“Maybe she won’t show.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“I’ll bet she’s stuck in traffic somewhere cursing herself and the cab driver.”
“What would you do if she didn’t show?”
“What would you like me to do?”
“To comfort me in my moment of greatest need. To sweep the tears of longing from my cheeks. To cool my brow from the ruination of abandonment,” he said, as melodramatically as he could muster from the memories of his one college drama class. “What do you think?”
“I think you should charge for your performances.”
“And I think I suddenly believe in love at first sight. What about you?”
“Only if it’s with a very wealthy man.”
“Not that love isn’t important,” he said slowly, comparing the assets of Rebecca Highland to Lucy Hollings. Where one possessed a quick, dark, brooding sexuality, Lucy was petite and susceptible to bouts of unnecessary introspection. What sexuality she possessed was secondary to her easy-going nature that was perfectly suited for the children she taught in her second-grade class. They had only gone out once, and then only to an art gallery.
Rebecca opened her sweater and let it drape away from her shoulders. She was wearing a skin-tight black leotard, the kind only a woman with an exceptional figure would wear in public. The crest of her tan sculpted the top of her obvious cleavage. Her smile was electric.
Robert wanted to reach out and take her in his arms. He rarely felt so inclined, or impulsive.
As the feeling surged, he felt relieved, almost human; he would reflect later. He had recently grown suspicious, weary of his own motives, mostly of his limited depth and doubtful maturity.
“Before she comes, please give me your phone number.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then we probably wouldn’t see each other again. A loss that will plague us both into eternity.” The waitress came by with their drinks. Rebecca pulled a scrap of paper from her wallet, scribbled out a phone number, and got up. “I’ll call you tonight,” he promised.
She stared down at him for a while. Another couple was seated at the next table. They ordered drinks. A truck outside honked its way through traffic. Another splash of time consumed the universe. “Until tonight, then.”
Helene brushed past Rebecca and pointed to the untouched wine spritzer on the table. She dropped into the seat and eagerly sipped away. “Oh, yummy. How did you know?”
Lunch was a distraction, as was Helene for the rest of the afternoon and evening. By nine, Robert was already staring at the antique clock next to his bed. It was a present from a woman he had long forgotten. Faces and bodies, breasts blended into a montage of screams and secretions. Of yielding flesh and temporary fascination that vanished as quickly as would a sandcastle in the next wave.
Another hour passed. Robert considered what might happen if he called and there was no answer. He got up and uncapped a cold beer. He sat in the darkened living room pondering the unknown mechanics of romantic failure.
What was he going to say that this woman had not heard? Who could resist that charm and confident sexual tug? How was he going to distinguish himself from the mob?
With some satisfaction, he set down the fifth empty beer bottle next to the fourth and leaned back and waited; and waited and waited and waited, the scrap of paper in hand.
He wasn’t certain what woke him. But his body instantly flushed with fear and failure. Two fifteen, he muttered repeatedly, a cold sweat lathering his body in defeat. He made it to the toilet and discharged the contents of six bottles of beer and guilt in one explosive retch.
“So call her,” Andy answered. “What are you so afraid of?”
It was nearly noon the next day. The Happy Helping never looked so desolate. “I don’t know.” They got up and paid the bill. Andy escorted his nearly grieving companion back to his apartment in funereal silence.
“Hey, is this the guy who slept with two sisters on the same night? So you missed a call. What’s she going to do?”
Robert couldn’t think of an answer, at least one that turned out in his favor. He was frozen in time and immobilized with the chill of his own mortality. Every time he envisioned Rebecca, her piercing eyes cut through him, exposing the breadth of his insincerity. She would lay bare his shallow past and denounce his intentions. She would quickly denounce him, if he hadn’t already denounced himself.
“She could refuse to see me again.”
“What woman could resist that charm? That sexual luminescence? Get over it and call her. Hey, it’s not like she’s the last woman on earth.”
On a planet filled with more handsome men possessing genuine depth of character, ample wealth, and rarefied intelligence, time had cast him as a pretender. “I’ll let you know how it turns out,” he said, leaving Andy standing in the street.
Riding up in the elevator, Robert felt sorry for himself. He opened the door to his apartment, to the scene of his unforgivable transgression, and picked up the phone.
“Hi. It’s me. Robert Massey.” There was a long pause on the line, the kind Robert had used with devastating impact on women he felt had crossed the line he had drawn in the sand of his morality.
“By my clock you’re, let’s see, half a day late.”
“I know. I worked late and didn’t want to call you when I got home.”
“You’re lying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know what I know, Robert Massey. But it’s obvious you’re lying. Look, I didn’t think this was such a great idea from the start anyway.”
“I fell asleep after five beers and an evening of staring at my watch. I woke up at two fifteen in a cold sweat and have been kicking myself ever since. I feel like crap, my head is about to explode, my eyes are swollen red, and I feel I let myself down more than anything else.”
“Now I believe you.”
“And I miss you.”
“I believe that too.”
“Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
“And yourself?”
“Yes, of course. To both of us.”
She agreed to an early dinner, as she had plans for later in the evening. Lucy had called an hour earlier to confirm their dinner date for tonight. She mentioned that her father was throwing a surprise birthday party for her mother this weekend. He could come if he liked.
He turned off the water, shaved, and dressed in beige linen slacks and a navy cotton sweater. He went out into Central Park and settled down with a cup of black coffee. What kind of a life had he made for himself, a shabby construct of deceit and deception featuring the sleight-of-hand of the heart?
In the moment of their meeting, he knew that the understated schoolteacher was taken with him. That he met her in a Winslow Homer exhibit was more a testimonial to one of his favorite hunting grounds than his cultural curiosity. Galleries, auction houses, and art museums were of particular interest. In military terms, they offered a target-rich environment.
A female squirrel raced up a tree trunk near his park bench. Her boyfriend caught up to her and quickly had his way. The scene reminded him of Lillian Grossman, of their quick lovemaking, of her neediness, of his meeting her at cheap midtown motels so this woman could live out the thrill of deception though her husband was long ago interned in a nursing home.
A year after her husband died, she registered him in her will with a modest stipend to supplement the one he had already been granted by another, even older, more grateful, flame.
Not precisely the makings of an admirable history to tell Lucy and Hollis Hollings over brandy after they retired to the study he had envisioned had to exist in their still unconfirmed opulent country home. No matter how he might wine and woo Lucy, Hollis Hollings wasn’t going to give up his daughter without a fight, preceded by a rigorous investigation. He returned home, renewed in spirit and direction, until he picked up the final message on his phone.
“Mr. Massey, this is Hollis Hollings. I hope this isn’t too forward, but I was just speaking with my daughter Lucy, who tells me you both enjoyed an afternoon with Winslow Homer last week. I asked her to invite you to a surprise birthday party I am throwing for my wife this weekend. She said she would call you, and frankly she would probably disown me if she knew I called, but I would really like you to join us if you could.” Robert made a note of Hollis Hollings’ private business number and collapsed onto the sofa.
“What does your heart say?” Andy asked over the phone.
The answer was all too easy. “It has to be Rebecca.”
“Then you have your answer.”
“What about Lucy?”
“I’ll fill in for you tonight.”
The suggestion was not as irrational as it sounded. Robert knew Andy from college. He was a moderately successful investment banker with pleasing looks and offbeat innocence that had its own unsophisticated attraction.
He could cancel on Rebecca, but he knew that would end any possibility for redemption. He could cancel dinner with Lucy, which shouldn’t disquiet her father, who had extended himself so graciously, if there was an adequate reason. Of course, he could simply lie to Rebecca and tell her that he had to go out of town on business, whatever that was, so he could attend Hollis Hollings’ party on the weekend.
“Just say you had to work late, and you didn’t want her to miss the ballet on your account. Your best friend would love to fill in for you for the evening. Hollis Hollings will be impressed with your concern for his daughter’s welfare.”
Robert finally considered the suggestion. “You may have something there.”
“I have to get back to work. If I don’t hear from you by the end of the day, I’ll make other plans.”
“What do you have going?”
“A friend of mine at the bank has a sister. I’ve seen pictures of her in a bathing suit, no less.”
“And you would pass her up for a platonic evening with Lucy?”
Lucy was hardly a dowager, though every girl seemed so in comparison to Rebecca’s compelling beauty. But there was a genuine sweetness about her that Robert admired. She had an attractive figure and a strong-willed personality. She possessed an understated prettiness that he believed would mature with time. There was a moment in the gallery when he thought Lucy was beautiful.
“So?”
“Lucy is very pretty, very educated, and outgoing. She plays tennis and jogs in the park three times a week. You two will enjoy the ballet.”
“OK. Look, I’ve got to go. Set it up and get back to me.”
That left his call to Lucy. He picked up the phone, got her on the second ring, and related the details of his offer, though not the message left by her father.
“You are so thoughtful,” she practically gushed. “I really love the ballet. When I heard you had tickets, I was so excited.”
For a woman whose father was obnoxiously wealthy, he thought she might have demonstrated a little more reserve. He passed on his regrets along with a highly flattering description of his best friend, with whom he had the business dealings that caused the timing conflict. “That doesn’t change our plans for your mother’s surprise party this weekend, does it?”
“Oh, you didn’t forget. That’s wonderful. There, I feel better already about tonight.”
“Well, have a great time.”
“My father is a great admirer of Winslow Homer.”
“As I am a great admirer of his daughter.”
He hung up and prepared himself for the rest of the evening. “I love you,” he said, without thinking. The mantra had a familiar, stale ring to it.
Massey was raised by his mother when his alcoholic father deserted them and his baby brother. Their life in a Philadelphia suburb had been stark; at times, it was impossible to guarantee a hot meal every night. One might have thought the hardship would have built enough character to throw his energies into working hard and carving out a credible reputation for himself.
And it did, at least academically. While his intellectual skills developed, so did his charm and personality, his glibness, and mental dexterity, which at an all-too-early age ignited the curiosity and later incited the libido of women of all ages.
A friend of Andy’s called him a gigolo. He was flattered, except when Andy warned him about the similarity between a gigolo and a prostitute. “What do you think a male prostitute does for a living?” he could still recall Andy arguing.
“It’s not like that at all. It’s never been like that.”
“Then what’s it like, and how is it so different?”
“I’m not doing it for a living.”
“Actually, you almost are.”
He massaged the side of his face, a habit he had picked up in the last few months of his college days. He felt it gave him a thoughtful, professorial look, a temporary counterpoint to his otherwise highly polished appearance.
He rifled through his memory trying to recall his visit to South Beach. There were women enough in the skimpiest dresses, and wild parties that ran into the early morning. He remembered a tide of tanned nubile bodies but no Ashley something or other.
Dinner with Rebecca was inspired and enlightening. Robert found himself on the defensive during the early hours but, as dinner time, and his charm wore on, she began to melt. Oddly, he was glad for her still faint hesitation.
Lucy left a message on his answering machine the next day. She had had a terrific time with Andy at the ballet. He called Andy to confirm the success of the encounter. Andy seemed surprised that Lucy Hollings was so pretty. That left him to return Lucy’s call.
“Lucy, I’m telling you this for two reasons. Firstly,” he began in a slow and testing tone after again expressing his regrets about not taking her to the ballet, “because I’ve tried to be honest with myself and you. And if you had found someone who you felt more strongly about, whether you knew that was the right or wrong decision, you would have to pursue him. But you couldn’t honestly pursue us both. And I want you to know that I am not capable of that deception either.”
He hadn’t rehearsed this monologue. It came from a place in his heart he had little experience with. Though he was delighted to know that at least such a place, if however malnourished, even existed.
“I don’t know what to say.” Her shock was as audible as the melancholy flutter of her heart.
“I know this is a terrible thing to say, but I’d rather tell you now than three weeks or three months later.”
Lucy closed her eyes. She knew she was about to cry. She had looked forward to the weekend more than the ballet, and her father’s unaccustomed generosity only made her more open to Robert Massey’s genuine advances. He was certainly the handsomest man she had ever gone out with. “Do you love her?”
“I think I have to find that out without hurting everybody around me.”
“I have to admit I have always been suspicious of your charm.”
“Lucy, I don’t know, maybe this is my first step in getting honest with myself and the people I really care about.”
“You mean her?”
“I meant both of you. Sorry it didn’t sound that way.”
“I guess I should thank you.”
“Not before I thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being so open and honest about your love for me.”
“Right, and look what it’s gotten me?”
“It’s gotten you someone who cares deeply for you but must find out if he loves another more. At worst it has gotten you a man who will surely rush to your side if he has made a terrible mistake.”
Looking for a reason to overlook the obvious hurt and embarrassment, Robert’s sincerity had left a palpable mark. “That sounds so sweet.”
“I mean it.”
“No matter what happens, I’m still going to love you.”
“And Lucy Hollings, no matter what, I’m going to love you.”
Their second dinner was languid and mixed with touches and glances, befitting two people who had longed all their lives for this one magic moment. After dinner, they went for a walk and, rather than go to a club or dance as Robert suggested, Rebecca set her hands on his shoulders and asked if he would take her back to his apartment.
They walked eight blocks without speaking. There was no urgency. No lustful entreaties. It was as though they had returned from a long trip and, as devoted lovers, were merely glad to be back in the privacy of their own embrace.
“It’s just as I pictured,” she said, leaving him standing alone in the hall and touring his apartment on her own. “You have excellent taste Robert Massey. Now all you need is money.”
“What else do you know about me?” Robert asked, except this time he was genuinely concerned.
“I know you are an opportunist by nature.”
“Actually, by design, but guilty enough as charged, Your Honor. But you have to consider the possibility that there may be mitigating circumstances.”
“Oh?” she said, spinning around, her long dark hair sweeping a path in the air behind her. “And what might those be?”
“I haven’t met the right woman yet to reform me.”
“You’re asking a lot of a woman. Maybe too much for any one woman.”
Her perfume caught him off guard and, for a second, he forgot what he wanted to say. He was pleased that he had finally met a woman who could be so disarming.
She made herself comfortable between two pillows on his cushioned loveseat. “Maybe you could muster up a small glass of brandy?”
Robert poured two drinks and sat in the chair facing her. After some silence, she admitted, “Well, the thing is I really don’t have a cousin Ashley.”
“Why did I suspect that all along?”
“Because you’re so naturally attracted to women and by women, and you just thought I was looking for a way to approach you.”
He raised his glass. “Your Honor, I throw myself at the mercy of the court.”
Rebecca set down her glass. A shallow pool of liquor remained in the bottom. The amount any lady should leave over to give the impression that she was not a devoted drinker.
“You look like you’re about to reveal one of your most sacred secrets.”
“Actually, two of them.”
“Now this is getting interesting.”
“Then, in confidence, of course.”
“What you say here stays here.”
“Robert, you’re a very handsome, charming young man, and more intelligent than you would prefer women realize. You’re also at a turning point in your life. I read that the moment we met. I’ve always had great intuition about those sorts of things.”
“That’s a gift.”
“I run an enterprise, a very exclusive business that could use your special services. You could make a lot of money for doing very little while probably enjoying yourself a great deal.”
Now, just barely, “I’m listening.”
“I own one of the most successful and, if I must say, one of the most prestigious male escort agencies in New York. As we sit here enjoying each other’s company, there are men older and younger than you out there on dates, unlike ours tonight, of course, with very wealthy women and earning a living you could only dream of.”
A hot buzz swarmed in Robert’s head. His hands went damp. “And?” was all he could muster.
“And you have a lovely apartment, Robert. But you’ve outlived the quiet post-college ghetto life. You need more and have no visible means of support, and what you’ve already gleaned from your modest conquests is not going to get you more than the few unremarkable prints you have hanging on your walls.”
Robert was offended, maybe more than he had ever been. It was more than what she said. It was the frankness of her observation. And it was that he had been so wrong. “I do all right.”
“That’s exactly my point. But what I don’t understand is why you’re wasting such talent and charm when you could be using those skills to make a handsome living and have some fun in return.”
“As a high-class male hooker?”
“This conversation is not about that. What you do there, or do not do, is your own business.”
“So, to recap, if I understand correctly, everything since we met has been leading up to an offer to join your stable?”
Rebecca shrugged her shoulders and got up. “That wasn’t what I said, and I am sorry you weren’t listening. And I would appreciate it if this conversation remained confidential.”
“No one would believe me if I repeated it.”
“That alone tells me that you’re not traveling in the right circles.”
“Thanks, but I’m not interested in your proposition, Ms. Highland.”
“Then I’m disappointed as well.”
“Trust me, I’m more disappointed than you are.”
“Why, because you didn’t get into my pants?”
“Because I had you figured all wrong.”
“And because you didn’t get into my pants.”
He laughed. “Well, yes. Why not.”
Rebecca reached down and hiked up her skirt above her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She made a very slow turn. “Consider this a perk I offer a select few of my more gifted employees.”
She slowly lowered her skirt, straightened her hair, removed a small white business card from her purse, laid it on a nearby table, thanked him for the evening, asked him to reconsider his decision, and left.
He finished his brandy and called Lucy Hollings to ask her if she had mentioned their recent conversation to her father. She was surprised and told him she didn’t expect to hear from him for some time, if ever. He didn’t want to tell her that he had been thinking the same thing. He apologized for calling her so late and asked her for one more favor. When she agreed, somewhat problematically, he asked her if he could come over to her apartment.
He paused for a moment in his living room and recreated the scene with Rebecca, the sight of her well-trimmed pussy, the generous flare of her hips and ample buttocks. The poster girl of his fantasies.
He grabbed her business card from the coffee table, switched off the lights, and left his apartment for an evening of confessing and convincing, with the newest love of his life.
About the Author
Arthur Davis is a management consultant who has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business, taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He was featured in a single author collection, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short fiction and twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017. He has been featured in The Colored Lens, The Literary Hatchet, Allegory e-Zine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, The MacGuffin, Fabula Argentea and The American Literary Review.
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